Thus till man end, his vanities goe round,
In credit here, and there discredited;
Striving to binde, and never to be bound;
To governe God, and not bee governed:
Which is the cause his life is thus confused,
In his corruption, by these arts abused.
LORD BROOKE.
It was the early afternoon of a fine open day in the last week of
April, in the year 1640. The sun shone warm; not a breath of wind was
stirring the tender foliage of the tall trees, or the delicate flower
of the lowly harebell beneath the hedge-rows. All was still, save that
at intervals the voice of the cuckoo was heard--loud, but yet
mellow--from the bosom of a neighbouring wood. The swains in the
field lay stretched in the shade, as though summer were already come:
in gardens and court-yards not a sound of labour or a clatter of life
disturbed the silence of the hour.
In a shady alcove, which looked out on the bowling alley of Milverton
House, sate the worthy old master of the mansion, with one leg crossed
over the other, a book upon his knee, and a kindly smile playing
across his manly features. Not far distant, upon the steps which led
up to the near end of a stately terrace, was seated a fair little
girl, about six years of age. A thick laurel protected her with its
shadow; and it might be seen by the paper in her hand, by the motion
of her lips, and by the sway of her little head and neck, that she was
committing some task to memory, with that pleasure that makes a
pastime even out of a lesson. Out on the smooth green an old
flap-mouthed hound, whose hunting days were long past, lay basking in
the sun, among the dispersed bowls, which the last players had idly
neglected to put away; and with them a boy’s bow and arrow had been
left, or forgotten, on the ground. The child’s murmur was lower than
the soft coo from the dove-cote, or the gentle music of the fountain;
and there was a hush of quiet about all these whispers of created life
that was in harmony with the general silence.
The shadow of the dial had crept on nearly half an hour before this
repose was broken. It was so at last, by a hot boy of fourteen, with
vest unbuttoned, and without a hat, who came to seek his bow and
arrow. The glad cry of “I have found them!” dispelled the silence: the
little girl thrust her paper into her bosom, and jumped up at the
sound of the welcome voice; and the old man looked up, and, putting
his book down on the seat beside him, scolded the noble boy for having
left the bowls out to be scorched and injured by the sun.
With no abatement of good humour, the cheerful boy, eagerly helped by
the little girl, gathered them up, and carried them into the
bowl-house. The old hound was too much accustomed to the thing even to
stir for it, though one of the bowls almost touched his nose.
This duty done, the boy, upon whose mind one thing lay uppermost, with
that abruptness which belongs to nature and to boyhood, propounded to
his great-uncle, Sir Oliver Heywood, the following most startling
question:--
“Was it not, sir, a very wicked thing to cut off Mr. Prynne’s ears?”
Had it suddenly thundered the old knight could not have been more
surprised; and, if a wasp had stung him in a tender place, he could
not have been less pleased.
“Master Prynne! what do you know about Master Prynne, you foolish
boy?”
“O, I know--I know very well! they cut off his ears because he didn’t
like plays; and that was very cruel! What a shame it would be to cut
off the ears of old Josh. Cross, that takes care of your hawks,
because he didn’t like to hear Stephen play upon the fiddle!”
“Why, Arthur, what has come to you, boy? who has been teaching you
this nonsense? If Master Prynne had lost his head, instead of his
ears, it would be no more than he deserved, and I hope he may live to
own it.”
At this rebuke the boy coloured, and hung his head; but added, as if
pleading for his fault,--
“It was Master Noble said so; and you know, sir, you have told us all
to mind what he says, for he is always in the right.”
Sir Oliver bade him hastily go play; and the boy, taking his little
niece by the hand, they ran out of the bowling-green at one angle,
while the good old knight, not a little discomposed by the incident,
ascended slowly to the terrace. Here he found old Philip, the keeper
of the buttery, seated at the far end, in the shade, in the calm
enjoyment of a pipe. Instead of the wonted word of pleasant greeting,
Sir Oliver told him, in a rough tone, to go and seek instantly for
Master Noble, and send him thither.
While the kind old serving man went away with his message in no
comfortable mood--for the young tutor was as great a favourite in
kitchen as in hall--the old gentleman paced the terrace with a
leisurely and thoughtful step; and made frequent stops and soliloquies
on the strange and unexpected words and sentiments which he had just
heard from the lips of his open and artless boy. While thus engaged,
we will leave him for a few moments to place before our reader the
state of the family at the time of which we write.
At the village of Milverton, in Warwickshire, upon a sweet spot above
the valley of the Avon, Sir Oliver Heywood, the descendant of a
successful and honoured merchant, occupied a fair and pleasant mansion
erected in the reign of Elizabeth by his wealthy father.
The family at Milverton House consisted of the worthy knight, a maiden
sister, his daughter--an only child--and a boy who was the son of a
favourite nephew slain in the German wars, in which he had been led to
engage as a diversion of his grief on the loss of a beloved wife.
In addition to these regular members of the family there was a little
orphan girl, whom his benevolent sister had adopted. This sister,
Mistress Alice, was two years the junior of Sir Oliver, and had
attained the age of sixty-one. She had taken up her abode with him at
the death of Lady Heywood, about four years before the period of
which we now speak.
Katharine, his daughter, was in her twentieth year, and his nephew’s
son was about fourteen years of age.
Master Noble, of whom mention has been made, was tutor to the boy
Arthur, and resided with the family.
This young scholar was the son of an old school-fellow and friend of
Sir Oliver’s, who held the benefice of Cheddar, in Somersetshire.
Cuthbert Noble, like his father before him, had been educated at
William of Wykeham’s school of Winchester; but not succeeding so far
as to obtain a fellowship at New College, Oxford, which is the usual
aim and reward of the scholars upon the Winchester foundation, he had
proceeded to Cambridge, and there graduated with good report. He had
been now six months at Milverton.
Sir Oliver’s birthday was ever a high festival at the manor-house.
This year it was the pleasure of his daughter to celebrate it by a
masque; and all the arrangements for this masque were referred by
Mistress Katharine to Cuthbert Noble. He cheerfully undertook them;
and having gained some experience in these matters at college, and
having some skill in painting, set himself to prepare scenes--then a
very recent invention. As, with a painting brush in his hand, he was
standing before a scene, nearly finished, and dashing in the white and
foamy water upon canvass, that was fast changing into a torrent,
falling from rocks, and rushing through a lonely glen,--and as he
stood back surveying the effect, and humming the fragment of a song,
Philip came slowly up the gallery, and said gravely,--
“Master Cuthbert, Sir Oliver wants to speak with you directly.”
“Where is he?”
“In the garden, on the lower terrace; and I wish he was looking more
pleasant:--it’s my thought, Master, there’s something wrong; for it is
not a small matter that can vex him.”
Cuthbert put down his brush and palette, and proceeded slowly towards
the terrace. As he was descending the wide steps which led to it, he
could not but observe that the good knight was serious, if not angry.
“Master Cuthbert,” said Sir Oliver with an air of gravity and
displeasure, “I have sent for you to hear from your own lips some
little explanation or defence of a matter that hath come to my
knowledge by the accident of a child’s artless utterance. It may be
that it was only a word lightly dropped by you--a passing levity--a
lapsus of the tongue, not of the judgment--such an indiscretion as I
may pass over in one of your unripe age and little experience, without
further correction than a faithful reproof, and a timely warning of
the danger of such vain observations, and of their unsuitableness and
impropriety in one who fills so important an office in my family, and
hath so far enjoyed my confidence as to have doubtless a great
influence for evil or for good.”
This long preface Sir Oliver delivered, pacing slowly on the terrace
with his eyes bent upon the ground. Cuthbert walked by his side,
anxious for the direct charge, now too plainly whispered from within
by his own swift thoughts.
Sir Oliver paused, and, looking full and steadily upon the serious
countenance of the youthful tutor, demanded of him whether it were
true that he had said publicly before any of his family or household,
that it was a barbarous and cruel thing to cut off Master Prynne’s
ears?
“I certainly so expressed myself,” was the calm answer of Cuthbert.
“Where and to whom did you thus speak?”
“It was in the library--the lady Alice was present, and Master Arthur
was there at his lesson.”
“And are these the lessons that you teach in my house and to my
children?--know you, sir, that Master Prynne is a traitor--that he
speaketh evil of dignities, and soweth disloyalty--that he is a
hypocrite and a fanatic?”
“Sir Oliver,” said Cuthbert, “there was no discourse upon this matter,
save only the one remark of which you question me:--this fell from my
heart when your good sister read out some news of him--and thereupon
the lady Alice went forth without a word; for I presume not to
intrude my poor thoughts of court affairs upon any one in this house.
I know my place better.”
“Life of me! Thou dost not confess thy fault--thou dost not say thy
pænitet for teaching this false lesson to my child!”
“I would not be slow to speak out my sorrow and shame if I felt them,
but I am conscience-whole in this thing,--and my few words did give no
other lesson than one of plain humanity.”
“Master Cuthbert, I do believe thee a true and gentle youth, of best
intentions, and thou comest of a good stock. Thy father is my good
friend from the gladsome days when we were school-fellows together at
St. Mary, Winton; and where hath church or state a better parson or
better subject than he? therefore, I would for his sake, as for thine
own, entreat thee mildly. Youth is warm and tender, and wanting a far
sight to the great end of punishment--the axe might rust and the
scourge gather cobwebs before hearts like thine would give rogues
their due.”
“I am of sterner stuff, Sir Oliver, than to wish a rogue safe from
the beadle, or a traitor from the headsman; but I am not so taught as
to think the mistakes of a severe piety treasons deserving of
torture.”
“Odd’s life! I see how it is--thou art bitten by these gloomy
fanatics--the venom is in thy veins:--well for me that I have seen its
first workings. By my fathers! these new papists, these worse
Carthusians, would drive sunshine from the earth, and kill the
flowers, and stop the singing of birds, and give us a world of rock
and clouds--hard as their stony hearts, and gloomy as their cold
minds! Master Cuthbert, we must part. I’ll not have the path of my boy
shadowed over before it be God’s will. The earth is green and goodly,
and pleasant to the eyes; and long may his heart rejoice in it, as
mine has before him. Look you, we must part.”
“At your pleasure I came, Sir Oliver, and I am ready, at your
pleasure, to return to my father’s. My stay with you has been short,
and I would fain hope that I have not failed in my duty to you. May
you be more fortunate in your choice of a tutor for Master Arthur
than you have been in me!”
Cuthbert spoke these words with so much self-command that not one
syllable trembled in the utterance; yet the tone was at once mournful
and resolved.
The better feelings of Sir Oliver were touched: the expression of his
eye showed plainly that he was repenting of his hastiness, relenting
in his decision. What his reply might have been, may, in its spirit,
be easily imagined; but a sudden interruption checked the words that
were rising to his lips; and a sounder and more prudential reason for
desiring the departure of Cuthbert was presented to his judgment than
any objection which could have been urged at that time, with any
semblance of fairness, against his errors as a churchman, or his sins
as a subject.
“Master Noble,” called a rich clear voice from above them,--“Master
Noble, we poor players do wait your pleasure, and are ready with our
parts; but we cannot go on with our rehearsal till the manager doth
come to us.” Looking up, Sir Oliver saw his daughter leaning over the
balustrade, with a paper in one hand, and a tall wand wreathed with
flowers in the other; and, as he turned his eyes upon Cuthbert Noble,
the strong emotions with which Cuthbert was evidently struggling did
not escape his observation.
“I have business with him just now, Kate,” said her father: “go thy
way. He shall come to thee in the hall anon.” But as he spoke, the boy
Arthur came down the steps, leading in his hand the little girl; and,
running up to Cuthbert with joyous eagerness, cried out, “Kitten can
do her part--she can say every word quite perfect--you must hear her.”
With that, the little girl letting go his hand, and putting back her
sunny curls, which had fallen over her blue eyes, repeated, with an
air of sweet intelligence and pretty innocence, these lines:--
“I do childhood represent,
Listen to my argument:
Mine the magic power to bring
Pleasure out of every thing;
Sunbeams, flowers, and summer air,
Music, wonders, visions fair,
All my happy steps attend;
Mine is peace without an end;--
All things are at peace with me,
Beast in field, and bird on tree;
The sheep that lie upon the grass
Never stir as I do pass;
If by the singing bird I stray,
He never quits his chosen spray;
If to the squirrel’s haunt I go,
He comes with curious eye below;
Earth and I are full of love,
I fear no harm from Heav’n above,
For there, as here, all things do tell
A Father God doth surely dwell:--
O! could I be a child alway,
How happy were life’s holyday!”
The countenance of Sir Oliver recovered all its wonted expression of
good humour, as the child prettily recited these lines; and patting
her on the head, as she concluded, he turned to Cuthbert and said, in
his usual kind tone, “We will talk our matter over another time: I see
that you are no joy-killer, and would never mar an innocent
pleasure-making--I was ever fond of a good play--a pox on these
prick-eared knaves that would forbid them!
“‘Why kings and emperors have taen delight
To make experience of their wits in plays,’
as Master Kyd hath it, in his Spanish tragedy.”
Cuthbert said nothing; but having a recollection of the passage from
which Sir Oliver had quoted, thought he might have found a more
comfortable sanction and a much better authority.
“But, prithee,” continued Sir Oliver, “whose rhymes be these that the
child has just spoken?”
“They are my poor doggerel,” answered Cuthbert; “for this dear child
would give me no rest till I made a part for her in the Birthday
Masque.”
“Marry,” rejoined the knight, “the fancy of them pleaseth me, and for
the verse I care not.”
They all now turned to ascend the steps; and as they did so, apparent
at the same instant to both Sir Oliver and Cuthbert was Mistress
Katharine, leaning over the balustrade of the upper terrace, with an
air of grave and perplexed curiosity.
As soon as they reached the top, which was level with the lawn in
front of the mansion, Katharine caught Kitten in her arms, kissed her
fair brow, and ran with her towards the house; the happy child calling
out the while, “Come along, Master Noble, pray, come,” and at the same
time clapping together her two little hands at thought of the coming
pleasure.